The audience with King Soryth ended as quickly as it began.The captives were taken below — deeper into the Spire's root-choked underlevels — and the hall's great doors closed with a sound like the locking of a tomb.
Zaryth stood in the shadow of a side passage, waiting for the last of the Talons to file out. The torches here burned violet, their light bending strangely around the carved thorn-motifs in the walls.
When the echo of boots had faded, he stepped into a narrow chamber, its door sealed by a rune-lock only he and Serakh could open.
Inside, the air was still and cold. A table of black stone dominated the space, its surface strewn with maps, sigil-marked parchments, and small figurines carved from bone — each representing a living enemy or ally. He lifted one of them now: a dark-eyed figure in a long coat, carved with meticulous detail. Eliakim Darkmoor.
Zaryth turned it in his gloved hand, considering.
He could have killed Eliakim in the forest. The hunter had been winded, cornered, his companions scattered. Even with the interference of Vaeryn, the kill was possible. The same for Gideon and Malachi — a clean strike, a final blow, no witnesses to challenge the tale.
And yet… he had not.
He set Eliakim's figurine down beside two others: Gideon's armored likeness, and Malachi's stern-featured form. Together, they stood in the center of the board. Around them, Zaryth began placing other pieces — Talon sigils, markers for the Spire's choke points, and crimson stones marking kill-zones.
"You don't cull the strongest prey immediately," he murmured to himself. "You let them run. You watch where they go. Who they trust. What they fear."
From a locked case at the table's edge, he withdrew a single folded letter — its seal broken long ago. The handwriting was human, the words half-faded, but he traced the signature with a gloved finger as if committing it to memory again.
"The hunter thinks he stalks me," he said quietly. "But his trail is already marked. His steps will bring him where I want him, and when he stands at the center of the snare… that is when he will break."
He replaced the letter and shut the case with a click.
In the corner of the chamber, a shadow shifted — not from the torchlight, but from the man within it. Serakh stepped forward, his movements so quiet they might have been imagined.
"You've given the king his trophies alive," Serakh said, his voice a low monotone. "He doesn't question it… yet. But one day, he will ask why."
Zaryth's mouth curved in a faint, humorless smile. "When he does, the prey will already have served their purpose. Until then, let him believe I am simply… patient."
Serakh studied him for a long moment before turning toward the door. "Patience can be a blade as sharp as speed. But blades dull, Zaryth. Make sure yours doesn't."
The rune-lock clicked as Serakh left, leaving Zaryth alone again with the board.
He picked up Eliakim's figurine once more, setting it at the very heart of the Spire's carved representation. Around it, he placed Gideon and Malachi — then ringed them with crimson stones.
"Run, little hunter," he whispered. "Run until the only path left is mine."
The violet torches flickered, and in the stillness, the game waited.